


The Edge of Glory

by telemachus



Series: Waves of Glory [8]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Glorfindel's motorbike, Longing, M/M, Sexy Stranger, Unrequited Love, gun - Freeform, one-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just one night in Manchester. Sometime during the 1990s, i guess.</p>
<p>Glorfindel is out on the town, looking for distraction from all his woes and mistakes......Vince, Vince is just looking at Stuart. Looking out for Stuart.</p>
<p>(Not necessary to know both fandoms, though obviously everyone should.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Edge of Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> For Wynja2007, just because she suggested it.....

It’s another night, just another night.

Sometimes you get a good night, sometimes you get an ordinary night, sometimes – sometimes you get a really, really shit night.

That night – that night was different.

That was the night – he – came along.

The only one – in all the years – to turn my eyes from you.

And even then – not for long.

Because, of course, it didn’t take long until you saw him.

And he saw you.

And that – that was it, game over. The rest of the men in the club – we might as well not exist for all the notice either of you were going to take.

You – you were in your element. Reeling him in, a glance, then another, eye contact, a smile, a raised eyebrow – all the old moves.

The moves that you will never use on me, and I know it.

All the same, I love to watch, hope, dream, imagine.

Stupid, but that’s me, isn’t it? Daft, soft, twat. Your twat, whether we admit it or not.

Anyway.

There he was, and oh yes, he was lovely. All of him, lovely, completely, utterly lovely.

I could see it – just looking at him – and a part of me – like happens sometimes – panicked, that maybe – maybe this would be the one to make you think – hm. A repeat, a regular, even.

Because he was – outstanding.

Tall, blond, hair down to his waist I should think. But not – not feminine, not at all. All muscle there. Fit, but not – not like he worked out for vanity. Real, proper man’s muscle. And the way he moved, held himself – he knew he looked good, but not posing. If it wasn’t for the hair, I’d’ve said soldier. As it was, I didn’t know. I hadn’t spoken to him – and I don’t suppose you listened at all. Or even asked.

Tattoo on one arm, a climbing rose – of all things – or is it rambling – I don’t know – when it grows over something? Some kind of – I thought it was a pillar, a column at first.

A fountain, I know now.

You brought him over – it was so early on you didn’t want to leave, wanted to dance, but didn’t want to lose him – didn’t want to waste him on a quickie out the back either. And, as usual, you wandered off, left me stuck with him.

Only – well – it wasn’t exactly a hardship, stood there, chatting. Nice guy, friendly, but – just waiting for you.

He had that look they all get, like they’re dying of thirst and you’re the only drink for miles.

I know that look.

I see it in my eyes in the mirror.

“He’ll be back in a minute,” I said, knowing it was a lie, knowing even you take longer than that to get off, and then, in that slightly gormless way I have sometimes, when I forget you don’t do talking to them afterwards, “you local? Or just visiting? Going to be seeing you around?”

He blinked, and raised one eyebrow at me, sardonic-like, and it was a gesture that didn’t quite sit right on him, like he’d learnt it off someone else – like if I was to try to give someone that look of yours,

“I’m not looking for any kind of – entanglement,” he said, and almost – narrowed his eyes at me, “hadn’t taken your – friend – for one to want that either.”

And of course, off I start,

“No, no, I didn’t – he isn’t – Stuart – god no, he doesn’t do boyfriends. I was just asking, like, not seen you before, but then it’s a big city, no reason I would have, you know, not out every night, just – just saying. You want another drink? I’m not. Not yet. Pace myself a bit. Got to be up early tomorrow – I’ll call it a night soon. What you drinking? Go on, he’ll be a bit yet, I know him, I’ll buy.”

He just looked at me, and there was an instant when I didn’t like what I could see in his eyes.

Pity.

Fuck off, I remember thinking. You don’t know anything about me.

“I’m fine,” he said, and then, “Vince, was it? No point just standing here – dance?”

Shaking my head, because – because no, I don’t dance with your shags, bad enough to talk to them, be left babysitting the one you want to take home while you’re off having a quick – whatever you were doing – but I don’t dance with them.

I’m not that sad.

Really, I’m not.

So we just sort of stood there for a bit. Him looking at the dancers, me – me looking at him. 

Thinking – thinking where the fuck are you when I need you, Alex? Could really do with someone to just – keep the conversation going.

Thinking – you cunt, Stuart. You complete and utter cunt. Leaving me with this one. Leaving me with any of them.

Wondering if it’s worse to be left with them afterwards, crying and begging, wanting and needing, or like this, waiting, being polite, putting up with me because they want to shag you so much.

Wondering which is crueller. To them or to me.

Wondering if you have any idea – but you don’t. You don’t and you don’t care – and it’s my fault for letting you.

But there. That’s me. Daft, soft, all the rest of it.

He – Finn – was looking at the dancefloor again. And – god help me – I could see, he was impatient with you.

“Fuck,” he says, not quite quietly enough, “came here for fun, not to bloody stand around agonising. Could get that from – “ and then he stopped, bit his lip.

“Where you up from?” I asked, desperate to get him talking, anything, please, ‘cos I know what you can be like. If you came back and he’d gone – I wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks. And how pathetic is that? No good at chatting them up for me, don’t even try mostly, but there I was, again, making conversation, trying to keep him interested enough to hang around for you.

Because I’m a twat.

He looked at me again, dismissive, cold,

“London,” he said, and then, “well. Most recently.”

Took me a while, but – well, men like to talk about themselves, don’t they? One useful thing mum did tell me. Ask a man about himself, he’ll think you’re a great conversationalist.

Shame I don’t remember it when I actually like someone.

Oh no.

I do. That’s why I know all there is to know about Stuart Alan Jones.

Much good it does me.

Anyway.

Finn. Once he was started – well, he’d had an interesting life, that’s for sure. Plenty of it to talk about. I was right, started out in the army. Bit more – freelance – that was the way he put it – now. Not quite sure who he worked for, which bit of – of the Home Office he came under, he was fairly cagey, but it all sounded pretty – exciting.

Or made up, of course. 

That’s always possible.

Still, it passed the time.

Then you came back, and we – we were talking so much we didn’t even look up for a moment. He was interesting, stories he had to tell, places he’d been, things he’d done. I didn’t quite know whether to believe all of it, but – like I say, sometimes, who cares? He was interesting – and I made him laugh. 

In a good way, I should add.

Mind, all through there was this – I don’t know – ache in him, I suppose you could say. Like a secret sorrow. Like – oh it doesn’t matter which doctor, which episode. But anyway. Like he’d lost someone he loved.

Like from now on he’d be always searching, never finding.

Oh fuck off. 

That’s what it seemed like to me.

Anyway. You came back, and were really, really pissed off that we didn’t notice for a moment.

‘Fact, there was a wonderful instant when you stood there, and Finn looked at you, and then – he turned back to listen to me.

But I knew it wasn’t worth it. A moment of triumph, for what?

So I wound up what I was saying, gestured, let you take centre-stage.

Watched the two of you dance, closer and closer, foreplay on the dance-floor, a real Stuart Alan Jones special.

Watched you lead him out the door, not even glancing at me.

Told myself it didn’t matter.

He’d forgotten me already, like they always do. And how can I blame them? Like moths to a flame, any man would be when Stuart Alan Jones looks at him in that way.

Told myself it didn’t matter.

He’d be forgotten by tomorrow, but you’d be on the phone, wanting me to – listen, cheer you on, watch you.

And I’d be there.

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

_“Finn, sweetheart, I like anything,” he says, and he grins, and the music in his voice, the way he moves, dancing, all the time, even when he walks, he’s dancing, displaying – all of it, after the drink, and the talking, the memories brought so close – he isn’t my ‘Thel, my sweet lord of the fountains, but – for now, just for tonight – he’s close enough._

_No messing about, we aren’t here for conversation or memories, or sweetness._

_I pull off my t-shirt, and reach my arms back, wind my hair into a rope, tie it off. A movement which shows off my biceps and my torso without seeming to be a display. I look good like this, jeans tight over my crotch, swaying as I heel off my boots, and I know it._

_The door to the flat is shut now, and he pours water over himself, shakes his head and his hair – straightened by the water – for a moment, if I half-close my eyes – oh ‘Thel, my beloved ‘Thel._

_Then he straightens and looks at me, eyes narrowing,_

_“Well, anything apart from – kinky. I don’t do – that shit,” and he waves a hand._

_Oh._

_My scars._

_For the second time tonight I raise my eyebrow, reaching for Erestor’s calm certainty, his control and effortless dominance,_

_“There was no pleasure in getting these,” I say, absentmindedly tracing over the livid lines on my chest, watching as his eyes follow my hand, “dangerous occupation, mine.”_

_Without even a flicker of interest, he nods, undoing his own shirt,_

_“Good,” he says, hard and cold, “because I don’t do burning and shit like that.”_

_The shirt falls to the ground, and he undoes his belt, slow and promising, every motion sensuous and – and practiced._

_“But what I do, I do better than anyone else,” he goes on, and I want to laugh at the effrontery of him._

_I don’t._

_Because – unwanted – a picture streams into my head, a picture of him, and – and his sweet, hopeless friend – somewhere – I don’t know where, I don’t recognise it. Somewhere hot, and dry, somewhere far from here, I am sure. A group of men surround them, and I can’t hear the words, I never can, but they’re shouting, insults I’d guess, and I can see this one – his temper lost, shouting back, ready to go in, to fight, his friend trying for calm, raising his hands to ask for peace – and one of the group has a knife – more than one perhaps. And the friend falls to the ground, and blood – and I don’t see more._

_I blink, and the vision goes._

_Sight unasked, sight undirected, there is nothing more I can learn._

_I wonder what purpose there is behind such a picture, sent to me._

_And then he – Stuart – advances, and his hands are on me, and I forget everything but this._

_Then there is nothing but heat and need and want._

_There is the touch of hands, and then tongue, the softness of some things, and the wonderful hardness of others. There is the strength, unexpected strength, in his arms as he moves me, in his legs as he holds me. There are the sounds he makes, gorgeous purrs and gasps, and cries – nothing held back, nothing censored or choked off, only delight and power and achievement._

_No love, not as I longed to know it with you, my sweet ‘Thel, not as I knew it once, hoped to know it again with you, my Erestor, my dark councillor._

_Enough. Instead there is an ease and simplicity, a cleanness to this exchange that I have not before known. Here there is no pretence – he wants nothing but sex, he offers nothing but sex. But he offers some of the most accomplished and experienced sex I have ever had._

_Almost I wonder if he is not fully mortal, if there is something more to him – he needs so little time between, he seems almost preternaturally aware of what I would have, his voice is spell-binding, his hands skilled, and his hips – ah, the way he moves – I saw him dance, but still I was not prepared._

_There is desire and display, there is push and pull, give and take and give again._

_There is time that seems to stand still, to wait for long moments of ecstasy; time that seems to fly past, every thrust seems a lifetime and a single second._

 

 

_After, I will think that it is a shame really that we have not a camera. A recording of this night would be, I think, a wonderful thing._

_I say it to him, idly, as I am dressing, and he smiles, that slow shark’s smile, and nods,_

_“Good thought,” he says, “yes. Need a stand for it as well. Nice.”_

_Nothing kinky, I remember. Well, I suppose it depends. Kinky is where you see it._

_It’s been a long night, and much as I have enjoyed it, I think I have had my fill of Stuart. And he of me, I daresay, he shows no sign of wanting to arrange another meeting._

_Almost, I would walk away now, but that flash of sight remains with me._

_“Your friend,” I say, “where could I find him, this time of day?”_

_He shrugs,_

_“Vince? Be at work. Harlo’s. The big one on the –“ and he describes without even stopping to think exactly where and how to get there, and what he’ll be doing, and wearing, and the hours he works today._

_Then he frowns,_

_“Why?”_

_I shrug, as though it isn’t important,_

_“Something he said. An address I wanted. Nothing important,” and then, because maybe he does have a heart, somewhere in there, “nothing to worry about. I’m not going to hurt him. My bike – he mentioned knowing about bikes – where to get spares. I’ve an old Triumph – gorgeous old thing, but needs special care, vintage.”_

_Bit like me, but I don’t say it._

_Stuart scoffs,_

_“Oh, yeah. Twat can point you in the right direction for that. His mother’s the biker, he just runs round after her. Do anything for anyone,” he pauses, and his eyes narrow. There’s a nasty side to this one, I think, but actually – it does him more credit than anything else I’ve seen. So, that sweet hopeless affection in those eyes, it isn’t just one-way, is it? And for a moment, I have to wonder – just friends – how long could Erestor and I have stayed just friends? Would we have been better that way? If I hadn’t pushed for more, scared him, demanded courage, reckless courage he simply does not have, would he still be there for me every day of his life? Then Stuart speaks again, a threat, and I think no, such pretence is not for me, “Don’t you go taking advantage. I’ll be watching.”_

_Yes. Only one person’s allowed to take advantage, aren’t you?_

_I don’t say it._

_Simply smile, and leave._

 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

That’s what I said to myself, same old refrain, Finn would be forgotten by tomorrow, but you’d be on the phone, wanting me to – listen, cheer you on, watch you.

And I’d be there….

Only now – now it’s four days later, and you’re at work, you’ll be going out tonight, same as always, and I – I’m here.

A place I never knew existed, with a person I would never have believed was real, having the kind of adventure I never thought could happen to me.

Not to me, Vince Tyler. 

Elves don’t walk out of books, films, out of imagination and into reality for someone like me.

They certainly don’t laugh, and sing, and teach me to shoot a gun, strip it down, clean it, all that.

They don’t tell me wild and improbable stories of adventure and mayhem.

At least, they haven’t done until now.

It’s funny, really. You shagged him, you had the chance to hear the truth, see the ears, but somehow – you didn’t notice.

Didn’t listen.

Your world is so huge, so important that there wasn’t space in it for anything new.

Me – oh, he won’t shag me. Doesn’t fancy me. And that’s fine. I don’t care – I really don’t – because I don’t take your cast-offs, never have, never will. But he’s talking, and I’m listening, and when he goes – because he will, he’ll move on, looking for adventure, and I’ll come home, back to my life – when he goes, he’ll leave me with better memories than just another fuck.

He’ll leave me knowing that the impossible can happen, that tales and fantasies don’t have to stay in books, on the screen.

He’ll leave me knowing there are adventures out there, ready for taking.

And maybe one day, one day, I’ll be ready to go and find them.

But not without you, Stuart.

I’d not leave you behind.

I’ll not be like Glorfindel, with his eternal sorrow for his dead love, for Ecthelion of the Fountains. I’ll not be like Glorfindel with his pain and rage, his anger at the cowardice of – of Erestor, I think the name was – for not walking away from everything to follow him.

I can wait.

I’ve waited years for you to see me. I can wait a bit longer, until you’re bored of shagging, of Manchester, of being a big fish in a small pond.

Until you’re ready for adventure – real adventure.

I know you, Stuart Alan Jones. You’ll never follow where I lead – but if I wait long enough, you’ll lead where I want to go.

Out.

Straight on and out.

And when you go – you don’t know how to change a tyre, how to check the oil in your car – you don’t know how to score a safe line. You don’t know how to stay sober enough to find your way home at night. 

You certainly don’t know how to use a gun.

You need me.

Even if you’ll never admit it.

And I’ll be there.

Waiting.

 

 

.


End file.
